The cafe table

I closed the book because I was done pretending to read. Alan sat across the small table, fifty-two, a bookseller, a coffee going cold, round glasses of mine between us when I took them off to see him plain. I am twenty-three. He does not teach at my university. He cannot grade me. I told him that again, not because he forgets, because I like the sentence. He said he knows, and that he wanted to kiss me only if I wanted the afternoon to leave the cafe and end with him fucking me.

I wanted it. I said so. I told him I wanted his cock in my cunt once we were in private, not out here. We left the book closed and walked to the side street. He kissed me against warm brick, one hand asking at my waist before it settled. His voice in my ear was the same voice he uses for a good sentence, unhurried. I told him to keep talking. He said I had a sharp mouth and that he had thought about it since the shop. I pulled his hand under my sweater, over my breast, and told him yes, there. My nipple tightened under his palm. My cunt was wet and I told him that too, because I like information shared.

We did not fuck in the alley. I am not interested in being a spectacle. I told him to take me to the study in his rooms, lock the door, and read nothing unless I ask, and then fuck my cunt there. He laughed, fond, and offered his arm. I took it. On the way I texted a friend that I was on a date with a man my own choosing, adult, unrelated to school. Then I put the phone away and kept his hand.